And Thereby Hangs a Tale

She turned to face him, and the second impression was just as devastating as the first.

“Do you know my old school friend, Nisha Chowdhury?” asked Sunita.

“We bumped into each other quite recently,” said Jamwal, “but were not properly introduced.” He tried not to stare into her eyes as they shook hands.

“And Sanjay Promit.”

“Only by reputation,” said Jamwal, turning to the other guest. “But of course I’m a great admirer.”

Sunita handed Jamwal a glass of champagne, but didn’t let go of his arm.

“Where are we dining?” Nisha asked.

“I’ve booked a table at the Silk Orchid,” said Sunita. “So I hope you all like Thai food.”

Jamwal could never remember the details of their first date, as Nisha so often described it, except that during dinner he couldn’t take his eyes off her. The moment the band struck up, he asked her if she would like to dance. To the undisguised annoyance of both their partners, they didn’t return to the table again until the band took a break. When the evening came to an end, Jamwal and Nisha reluctantly parted.

As Jamwal drove Sunita home, neither of them spoke. There was nothing to say. When she stepped out of the car, she didn’t bother to kiss him good-bye. All she said was, “You’re a shit, Jamwal,” which meant that at least he could cancel the farewell flowers.

The follow

ing morning Jamwal sent a handwritten note with Nisha’s red roses, inviting her to lunch. Every time the phone on his desk rang, he picked it up hoping to hear her voice saying, “Thank you for the beautiful flowers, where shall we meet for lunch?” But it was never Nisha on the end of the line.

At twelve o’clock he decided to call her at home, just to make sure the flowers had been delivered.

“Oh, yes,” said the houseman who answered the phone, “but Miss Chowdhury was already on her way to the airport by the time they arrived, so I’m afraid she never saw them.”

“The airport?” said Jamwal.

“She took the early morning flight to Los Angeles. Miss Chowdhury begins her final term at Stanford on Monday,” the houseman explained.

Jamwal thanked him, put the phone down and pressed a button on his intercom. “Get me on the next plane to Los Angeles,” he said to his secretary. He then called home and asked his manservant to pack a suitcase, as he would be going away.

“For how long, sahib?”

“I’ve no idea,” Jamwal replied.

Jamwal had visited San Francisco many times over the years, but had never been to Stanford. After Oxford he had completed his education on the Eastern seaboard, finishing up at Harvard Business School.

Although the gossip columns regularly described Jamwal Rameshwar Singh as a millionaire playboy, the implied suggestion was far from the mark. Jamwal was indeed a prince, the second son of a maharaja, but the family wealth had been steadily eroding over the years, which was the reason the palace had become the Palace Hotel. And when he had left Harvard to return to Delhi, the only extra baggage he carried with him was the Parker Medal for Mathematics, along with a citation recording the fact that he had been in the top ten students of his year, which now hung proudly on the wall of the guest toilet. However, Jamwal did nothing to dispel the gossip columnists’ raffish image of him, as it helped to attract exactly the type of girl he liked to spend his evenings with, and often the rest of the night.

On returning to his homeland, Jamwal had applied for a position as a management trainee with the Raj Group, where he was quickly identified as a rising star. Despite rumors to the contrary, he was often the first to arrive in the office in the morning, and he could still be found at his desk long after most of his colleagues had returned home.

But once he had left the office, Jamwal entered another world, to which he devoted the same energy and enthusiasm that he applied to his work.

The phone on his desk rang. “There’s a car waiting for you at the front door, sir.”

Jamwal had rarely been known to cross the dance floor for a woman, let alone an ocean.

When the 747 touched down at San Francisco International Airport at five forty-five the following morning, Jamwal took the first available cab and headed for the Palo Alto Hotel.

Some discreet inquiries at the concierge’s desk, accompanied by a ten-dollar bill, produced the information he required. After a quick shower, shave, and change of clothes, another cab drove him across to the university campus.

When the smartly dressed young man wearing a Harvard tie walked into the registrar’s office and asked where he might find Miss Nisha Chowdhury, the woman behind the counter smiled and directed him to the north block, room forty-three.

As Jamwal strolled across the campus, few students were to be seen, other than early morning joggers or those returning from very late-night parties. It brought back memories of Harvard.

When he reached the north block, he made no attempt to enter the building, fearing he might find her with another man. He took a seat on a bench facing the front door and waited. He checked his watch every few minutes, and began to wonder if she had already gone to breakfast. A dozen thoughts flashed through his mind while he waited. What would he do if she appeared on Sanjay Promit’s arm? He’d slink back to Delhi on the next flight, lick his wounds, and move onto the next girl. But what if she was away for the weekend and didn’t plan to return until Monday morning, when term began? He had several pressing appointments on Monday, none of whom would be impressed to learn that Jamwal was on the other side of the world chasing a girl he’d only met twice—well, three times if you counted the pigtail incident.